Ancient History
by Onesmartcookie78
Summary: Victoria Bishop was born in the 1600s, so how is she still running around in the twenty-first century? With a deadly power, it's no wonder Xavier and Magneto want her for a weapon. Set during X-Men. Logan/OC. M for violence and language. Starts slightly in X-Men: First Class, then moves to X-Men. Possible extension into later movies.
1. Chapter 1

Ancient History

Onesmartcookie78

**A/N**: The Salem witch trials (as well as the others that occurred in England, Wales, Scotland and wherever else) were wrong and I do not condone them in any way. My character, Victoria Bishop, is based off a woman hanged for witchcraft with the same last name. The part where she says that she does not know what a witch is and the judge responds that if she does not know, how does she know that she is not one? _**actually happened in real** **life**._

Please note that I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible in this story; the historical events mentioned have been extensively researched.

Also; Erik's last name, "Lensherr" **is mistakenly spelt that way in the movie. I will be spelling it properly**, "Lehnsherr", with an _h_.

**Summary**: Victoria Bishop was born in the 1600s, so how is she still running around in the twenty-first century? With a deadly power, it's no wonder Xavier and Magneto want her for a weapon. Set during _X-Men_. Logan/OC.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the X-Men (although I really wish I owned at least Wolverine), only Victoria and any other OCs mentioned.

{~}

_"You're a liar! I'm no more a witch than you are a wizard! If you take my life away, God will give you blood to drink!"_

_-Sarah Good_

{~}

It's hard to ignore a woman with an ankh on the inside of her left wrist and a scythe on her right. Especially when both are in thick black ink.

I know because I try to every time I look in the mirror.

Her hair is a long, boring reddish-brown like mine; her eyes are a dull amber, just like mine; she possess the same high cheekbones, ski-slope nose and generous lips as me. Because she is me.

Is it bad that my lips are my favourite feature?

Getting off track- why is it so weird that this person in the mirror is me? I'll tell you why: she kills people.

* * *

**December 31, 1692**

It's accidental, I swear. I first discovered my "talent" (if it can even be called that) when I was eight years old. I was desperately sick for an entire _year_, enough that my parents had to call on a doctor. Nothing the doctor did helped. I recovered by myself at the end of the year, without any signs of my return to well-being. It was like I was sick, and then overnight, I was just... better. My parents were so relieved that they hugged me straightaway.

I made the mistake of touching my mother with only my right hand. My dad received my left and was all right, but mum dropped to the ground. She didn't even have a heart attack, or go into cardiac arrest or anything; she just fell over, dead. My father stood, shocked, having already listened for a heartbeat and proclaiming her dead. I had to know for myself, and so I knelt down, checking for a pulse with my left hand.

Being sick for so long had taught me a thing or two about medicine, I suppose.

Anyway, the barest touch and she was alive again. Her heart just picked up its rhythm and started beating again.

I burst into tears, after that, whilst my dad started shouting that I was a witch. Ah, the Salem witch trials- great time in history, huh?

They took me to the courthouse to hold a "trial" (more like scream that I was guilty). My mum didn't know what was happening, and just shouted my name over and over, sobbing. I remember my father, grim-faced, casually dragging her from the courthouse, telling her to go home. He himself had stayed and testified on behalf of my "witchcraft".

The whole time, I cried that I was innocent, that I strictly followed the Word of God, that I was pious and holy and whatever other religious phrases could beat their way to the forefront of my mind, underneath the "What is going on?!" reverberating through my skull.

I was ignored, to the point where I began to wonder if I really _was _a witch.

When they asked how I pleaded, I shouted that I was innocent. It went on for hours like that, them insisting that I admit to my sins or be forsaken by God.

Finally, I snapped, saying that I didn't know what a witch even _was_, to which my fair and righteous judge asked how I knew I was not a witch if I didn't _know_ what a witch was? My father jumped in, saying that I had cured myself of my illness in a single night when the doctor could not in a year.

Then, our resident coffin-maker took the stand and proclaimed that a few men had turned up dead the day before, and their murders were immediately pinned on me.

Some of the girls who lived in the houses around me (and who disliked me) informed the court that I was _obviously_ a witch. Whenever I would look one of them in the eyes in disbelief, they would fall out of their chairs in "pain". They said I had caused them "great and terrible pain of the most horribly severe variety", that it must be my "witchcraft".

At the age of eight and still a naïve child, I sincerely wondered if they were joking. If this whole trial was all a joke. I had, after all, killed my mother and brought her back to life just that morning. How could they believe that it was witchcraft and not a simple miracle? Wasn't it enough that mum was up and walking?

The day after, the townspeople decided to conduct a physical examination of me, at which point they stripped me naked and found the markings on my wrists. I was labelled further a witch, a child of the devil, though I swore I knew not how they had gotten there.

That afternoon, a warrant was drawn up for my death and I was hanged and buried...

Except I came back to life.

* * *

**January 1, 1693**

Are you afraid of small spaces? If so, being buried alive is not for you. If not, it's enough to _make _you claustrophobic.

Imagine waking up with a pain in your neck, splinters in your back, and dirt in your face in small, dark, enclosed space with little to no oxygen. It's a good thing the grave was shallow, as there were plenty of other "witches" that needed executing.

Now imagine being an eight year old child who just killed her mother (which would, undoubtedly, lead to years of therapy when they invented psychologists) and brought her back to life.

Throw in the fact that I truly believed myself a witch and you're set.

Anyway, I managed to bust myself out of the coffin, only to find that it was the dead of night. I rose from my grave, wondering how I was awake and living when my throat burned as though I'd been hanged... whereupon I quickly remembered that I had been.

Further proof that I was a witch, which meant I shouldn't be alive. As a devout follower of God, I immediately determined that I needed to kill myself. The Lord had clearly been disappointed at my previous death and brought me back to life to reenact a better one. I needed to burn myself to fully purify myself of my sins.

Or, at least, that's what I thought back then. I was only a brainwashed child in a town where some now believe there was something in the water. Likely a high quantity of arsenic, since it was well water. Now, I so was much more jaded; pessimistic, an optimist would call me, but a realist, in practice.

Anyway, I stalked to the judge's house straightaway and told him that it was God's will that I be burned to absolve me from my sins. His compliance was quick and I found myself tied to a cross, screaming as fire lapped at my skin while the crowd cheered barbarically in the background.

* * *

**February 16, 1693**

The next time I woke up was weeks later. Since my body had been but an urn of ashes, it was no surprise that it took longer for all the pieces to congregate in a suitable place to reconstruct my body. The process was agonising; it took long enough that I woke up early during various points of the reconstruction howling at the unbearableness of it.

I laid low after that second death, cold and afraid of my own body. It turned out that I'd landed in Wales, and I was quick to find my way to the nearest home. The owners were kind enough to let me stay with them until I turned eighteen and was raised a right and proper young woman.

The seventeenth century had passed, the year now 1703. I was on my way home from the market one evening when I was robbed and murdered. Except that I could never really remain dead. I woke up the morning after to find myself in an open field with blood staining my dress.

Figuring I'd probably already been declared dead by the local papers, I decided it was time for me to leave Wales. I'd been there long enough.

From then on, I dressed like a male to avoid suspicion whilst I travelled as I pleased. I went everywhere and anywhere. I died a few more times and found out that I was doomed to remain with the visage of a woman in between her twenties and thirties forever. It wasn't a terrible existence. I fought in wars that I believed in and some I didn't and fell in love. I did everything I could.

The idea of being a witch still heavily weighed on me, but as technology developed, science progressed, and cultures changed, I was given new theories to entertain. Concepts that would have been forbidden to me before (reading anything but the Bible) were opened up to me. I still disguised myself as a male for good measure, but I was happy to see women moving forward in the world.

As time passed, I, too, changed. I became withdrawn from the world with my discovery of books and learning, and found myself reading and writing alone in my very own laboratory. I experimented on the properties of my blood, examining it under the microscope and concluding that it was a gene mutation which had caused my "witchcraft".

I brought things back to life with my blood as a stable form of vitality. It was a wondrously dark time for me. In that period of my life, I was the closest to the devil I'd ever been; I didn't experiment solely upon animals (and feel very much like Victor Frankenstein in doing so). I also experimented on myself.

I would cut myself to see how much blood one needed to lose in order to die of blood loss (I estimated it was roughly one to two litres) so that I knew my limitations. It was from my secluded cottage -which lurked on the edge of a small town- that I discovered something far stranger.

The day that I died of blood loss, a thirty year old woman died of blood loss after slitting her wrists as I did. It was the sort of town where everyone knows everyone, and none could fathom her sudden suicide. On a whim, I investigated farther; I killed myself most strangely and awaited results.

A day after waking up from my death (I had decided to bury myself alive, which was both difficult and excruciatingly unpleasant- it was no wonder I became afraid of elevators after my first ride in one) I found that a townswoman of similar age to me had died in the same manner.

It was a life for a life, then; I died, and in my place, a woman of similar age (at least, in terms of my appearance) would take my place.

* * *

**May 5, 1962**

Anyway, I bet your bored of hearing about my past, so let's move on to how I met the wonderful Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr. It was simple, really. Charles used Cerebro to find me and ask me to join his team, which I delightfully declined.

It was my first interaction with any other mutants.

I had been sitting in Central Park when they approached me, playing chess as I so often did on weekend mornings. My opponent had to leave the match before we could finish though, and I was just about to sweep all the pieces into a box when a black knight jumped to a space of its own accord.

"Check." Charles Xavier sat down across from me, Erik Lehnsherr standing with his hands in his pockets to Charles's right. "Victoria Bishop, I presume," he offered me his hand, which I ignored. "I'm Charles and this is Erik."

"That's an old name." I commented, thinking of my dad suddenly, unpleasantly, and trying my hardest to appear unsurprised, as well as to ignore the tingling in my head. It felt very much like someone was walking around in my head. "A very, very old name. It belongs to a long deceased relative of mine." I moved my rook decisively, capturing the offending knight in a move that put _his _king in check. "Mate in six moves," I offered. "You have until then to explain your mutations."

Charles and Erik bristled at that. "How do you know they're mutations, not something else?"

"I have studied my own anatomy extensively," I answered. Mutants. If it felt like someone was creeping around inside my head near the two of them, one of them probably was. And based on the slightly guilty expression lining Charles's forehead, it was him. "But you should already know that. Find what you're looking for in my head, Charles? It's rude to borrow information without asking."

Charles moved his king back a space to avoid capture, looking sheepish. "Ah, sorry. We're used to dealing with teenagers," he said by way of excuse. And as far as excuses went, it was a terrible one.

"Teenagers ignorant to their own DNA coding," I muttered, trying not to smirk at his defensive position on the board. "As well as your mental snooping." I moved my queen to a position that nearly put him in check again. "How did you move the piece?"

"I didn't, that was Erik," Charles replied, moving a pawn closer to my side of the board, where he would obviously exchange the weak piece for his own long dead queen.

"I can control metal," Erik supplied shortly, looking bored.

"I'm guessing tall, dark and brooding scared off a mutant once, so now you do the talking, because you feel you are more charming?" I questioned Charles, intercepting his pawn with my bishop slyly. His move was predictable, since the pawn had been close to my side of the board and was one of his few remaining pieces. Unfortunately my move sent his king back to a corner.

"You're very perceptive," Charles complimented me. "What I really wanted to ask, however, is if you'd be interested in joining our... how should I put it... school for mutants? With your experience, you could be a valuable teacher, for the kids and for Erik and I."

My eyebrows shot up as I moved my other rook, only leaving Charles two spots to move between each turn with his king. His pawns could have the board for all I cared, because his king was mine in three turns. "I'm almost two hundred eighty years old. I have seen wars waged and lost over religion, resources and land. I have learned everything I can, but I am hardly willing to live anymore."

As I spoke, he moved a pawn forward. I moved my own pawn towards his king, continuing: "I wish to remain impartial to whatever war is brewing on the horizons."

"How do you know that-?" Charles allowed the inquiry to trail off, moving the same pawn.

"You learn the signs, and the pissing contest America is having with the USSR in terms of building up the nuclear arsenal is a dead giveaway," I rolled my eyes, moving my queen deliberately. "We have been on the edge of war for some time now. It is only natural that it come to a head."

"That head will be caused by the mutants," Charles countered, distracted by my queen. Meanwhile, my bishop went unnoticed... he moved his pawn again, one move from my side of the board. "A man named Sebastian Shaw is instigating a confrontation between the U.S. and the Soviets in Cuba. He convinced the U.S. to put missiles in Turkey and the Soviets to put missiles in Cuba."

"He wants them to use the nuclear weapons we've built," I realised, moving my bishop that single, final stroke and declaring: "Mate."

Charles stared at the board in confusion. "How-? Oh the bishop. Clever. I'm going to pretend you didn't boost your ego using that specific piece," he said cheekily.

I shook my head at him in amusement, clearing the board. "Regardless, I'm going to have to decline, boys," I put the lid on the box, drawing myself up to my full height, which was admittedly only five foot six. Not exactly short, but not really tall, either. "I find myself in a period of retirement, right now. It comes in cycles," I shrugged. "It's selfish of me, but with near immortality, I don't really need to worry about the end result of this war either way. I'm just tired of the repetition," I confided. "I only just got of WWII, so don't drag me into three just yet."

"WWII ended seventeen years ago," Erik informed me tightly, his hands clenching in his pockets.

"Passed in a blink of an eye for me," I remarked. "Come see me in about," I looked at each of them, trying to think of a decent period of time by estimating their ages. It wouldn't do to give them a number they wouldn't live to see. But I still wanted to make it a damn long time... "I think you two can survive another half-century, at least, so find me then. Any sooner?" I wriggled my gloved fingers at them in warning. They must know about my mutation. Why else would they come to find me, specifically?

As I stalked away, I could hear Erik mutter: "Piece of work, like that guy in the bar."

I pretended not to hear.


	2. Chapter 2

Ancient History

Onesmartcookie78

**A/N**: The Salem witch trials (as well as the others that occurred in England, Wales, Scotland and wherever else) were wrong and I do not condone them in any way. My character, Victoria Bishop, is based off a woman hanged for witchcraft with the same last name. The part where she says that she does not know what a witch is and the judge responds that if she does not know, how does she know that she is not one? _**actually happened in real** **life**._

Please note that I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible in this story; the historical events mentioned have been extensively researched.

Also; Erik's last name, "Lensherr" **is mistakenly spelt that way in the movie. I will be spelling it properly**, "Lehnsherr", with an _h_.

Lastly, Victoria gives nicknames. Cyclops is "Shades" and Storm is "Moneypenny". This is a dig at how Ororo answers the phone at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, causing Victoria to believe her a receptionist. It's also amusing because Halle Berry, who plays Storm, is a Bond Girl in _Die Another Day_. Jean Grey is "Mary Jane" because she has red hair. This name is taken under the pretence that Spiderman **does not exist in the Marvel-universe**,_  
_

**Summary**: Victoria Bishop was born in the 1600s, so how is she still running around in the twenty-first century? With a deadly power, it's no wonder Xavier and Magneto want her for a weapon. Set during _X-Men_. Logan/OC.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the X-Men (although I really wish I owned at least Wolverine), only Victoria and any other OCs mentioned.

{~}

_"It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets." _  
_- Voltaire_

{~}

**April 1, 2004**

To say I was nonplussed when I received a letter from "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters" was an understatement. How old did they think I was? I snorted, almost trashing the mail before reading it, but it had come all the way from America and the name sounded at least _slightly_ familiar.

Oh, I forgot to mention. I move every ten to twelve years, when I can no longer excuse my inability to age. I start out by saying I'm as young as I can pass for so I can stay for as long as possible. The youngest I've gotten away with is twenty, and even then everyone told me my eyes made me look old.

Right now, I was in Greece, soaking up the sun on the beautiful beaches. The food was pretty good, too.

Anyway, I opened the letter, startled to see that it was an invitation to come teach at a mutant school in New York in the States. I hadn't been there since just before the Cuban Missile Crisis, when some mind reader named Charles Xavier and his shiny-metal-loving friend, Erik, had informed me that a mutant named Shaw was trying to cause world war three. I had all but rudely told them to go fuck themselves and hightailed it out of there.

I had stayed far away from Cuba as well as Russia and Turkey, after that, instead choosing to spend the next fifteen years in the Arctic.

My eyes widened upon my recollection- Charles! Charles Xavier! If this was his school, I was going to kill him! I vaguely recalled telling him to wait fifty years before contacting me.

Grumbling to myself, I called the number provided. A woman introducing herself as Ororo answered the phone and had me wait to speak to Dr. Xavier.

Finally, he picked up:_ "Hello."_ He said it definitively, as though his greeting was no question; like he knew I would call.

"Charles Xavier, would it be you who is sending me letters to join the teaching staff for a school full of mutants?" I fumed.

_"No, different Charles,"_ he sighed, and my cheeks flushed.

"Oh, sorry," I mumbled, embarrassed and about to hang up.

_"No, wait, don't,"_ Charles said quickly._ "I was joking,"_ amusement laced his voice.

"You arse," I growled, "how many years has it been?"

_"Forty-two,"_ he answered, chuckling. _"I was supposed to wait fifty, but I'm severely understaffed. Think you can come eight years early?"_

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "So long as you don't want me to fight. I was in Korea, Vietnam and a bunch of other wars I don't feel like talking about in succession. I don't need any more right now."

_"You're at that part of the cycle right now?"_ he asked.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I'm bored right now, too much time spent lazing around on beaches and boats with cats and tourists. What do you want me to teach?"

_"What would you feel comfortable teaching?"_ he turned the tables on me.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm three hundred twelve, certainly qualified for history or literature, though I'm not sure how willing I am to teach either. I've read damn near everything, so pick a subject and I'll teach it."

Silence._ "We have a math teacher, a shop teacher and a science teacher. We could use a history teacher, an English teacher and a gym teacher."_

I whistled, "When you say understaffed..."

_"Yeah,"_ Charles agreed. _"History and English, then. You're more than qualified for both. If you can teach a gym period, too, that would be great."_

"Fine," I conceded. "When do you want me there?"

_"As soon as possible. We need all the help we can get."_

"I can be there tomorrow," I said, fingers tapping on the phone as I started packing. That consisted of me throwing clothes haphazardly into my suitcase. I wasn't exactly "up to date" on fashion; mostly I just kept the clothes I liked until they had to be thrown out because they had too many holes, or the fabric was too faded. "I'll call you later with the time my flight gets in. Have someone pick me up at the airport, if they can," I requested.

"That can be arranged," Charles said._ "I didn't think you would be so eager, honestly."_

"I'm in a nurturing mood right now, and I'm thinking American history," I smirked. "I know a lot about Pre-Revolution America."

_"Is that when you were born?"_ Charles feigned ignorance.

"You've been inside my head, Chaz, you know my past," I replied. "You poked around my head when you stalked me in Central Park that day. Speaking of, how did you not win that chess match with your telepathy?"

_"I actively tried not to use it,"_ Charles admitted._ "And 'Chaz'?"_

"It's that or 'Chuck'," I told him knowingly, zipping my suitcase and moving onto my bookcase. I started packing my extensive library into cardboard boxes, already dreading the cost of shipping my things overseas. Again. "Charles is too stuffy a name."

_"Does this have anything to do with the fact that your father's name is 'Charles'?"_ Charles said quietly.

My throat closed up and my heartbeat seemed to slow. I didn't respond for a long time. "You know the answer to that," I finally managed to choke out, stuffing books more roughly into boxes.

_"If you ever need to talk about anything,"_ he offered quietly. _"I'm here and I know."_

"Yeah," I said, closing my eyes. "I'm going to go book a flight."

* * *

**April 2, 2004**

I managed to get a red eye to New York flying direct. I never did fall asleep on the plane, or the night before. Instead, I occupied myself with a Nancy Drew book, terrible aeroplane coffee, and my CD player, which was currently rolling the greatest Beatles album of all time.

Took me back to Woodstock.

When I arrived at the airport, I was more than a little exhausted and, accordingly, irritable. A guy with a nice set of red sunglasses and a woman with long, white-blond hair greeted me. Shades said his name was Scott, but I could call him Cyclops, and blondie turned out to be receptionist. She told me to call her Storm.

I was so calling Scott "Shades" and Ororo "Moneypenny".

I told them as much, and Scott just shrugged. Ororo looked a bit offended to be reduced to a Bond-girl/secretary, but I winked at her and I figured we'd be all right if she could understand my movie reference. The boot of the car received my lone trunk and I curled up in the backseat. Scott was driving and Ororo was talking on her mobile, her face grim.

"Victoria," Ororo handed the mobile to me. "Dr. Xavier wants to talk to you."

"Thanks, Moneypenny," I took the mobile from her, already dreading what he was going to say. My stomach was twisting in knots and I just knew that it was bad news. "What is it, Chaz?"

Scott's sunglasses found my eyes in the rear-view mirror at the nickname, whilst Ororo whispered instructions in his ear.

"There's been a change of plans," Charles sounded apologetic. Why would he be apologising? Unless...

"I told you I didn't want to fight," I hissed. It wasn't that big of a deal, but I felt like I had to hold my ground to refrain from being labelled as a push-over. "That's what I said. It was our agreement."

"It shouldn't be a fight," Charles said quickly._ Almost too quickly..._ "You just need to pick up two mutants in Canada. It should be fast, except for the drive."

"Do you swear?" I wondered, tapping my fingers nervously on the cover of my book.

"I swear that that's what I _think_," Charles replied. The good man wasn't going to leave me any ammunition for if he was wrong. Clever.

"That's as good as it's getting," I muttered, hanging up. I handed the mobile back to Ororo.

The silence stretched thick throughout the duration of the tense New York traffic until we crossed the border to Canada. It had been more than a few hours at that point, and Ororo tried to strike up conversation.

"So, do you have a nickname? 'Victoria' is a little long," she mused, brushing her straight hair behind her ears. The colour was natural, and her long, side fringe looked good. It would have looked like a wig, had her fringe been shorter and her hair been more platinum.

"No. When I was born, 'Victoria' was a right proper name. I have not been called 'Victoria' in a long time though," I admitted casually. I couldn't help but fiddle with my gloves as I talked about the past.

"When were you born?" Scott asked with a frown, eyes (eye?), I assumed, on the road.

"Sixteen eighty-four," I drawled, enjoying the shock in, at the very least, Ororo's eyes. "In Salem. Good times. Wound up hanged and burned on the stake within hours of each other," I said as wistfully as I could manage, like my past was one big show and I was just an actor trying to make a poignant tale happy. Subtext, my friends.

"What's your power?" Ororo gave me a sad, almost pitying look.

"I kill people with one hand and bring them back to life with the other," I nonchalantly crossed my legs and flipped to the page I had left off on. "Oh, and when I die, someone else dies in my place so that I can live."

"Christ," I heard Scott mumble.

* * *

When we found the two mutants, my hair was on end. Something bad was happening to them. They were being attacked. Ororo and Scott automatically leapt out of the car, but I stayed stock still.

Could I? Should I? If I ended my peacetime streak, I was going to go into a war cycle for a while. There was just something about the thrill of my heart pounding in my ears, the adrenaline rushing through my veins, the endorphins flooding my brain, that made me addicted to fighting. It's a hard habit to break when it's all you've ever known.

I've found that war gives me a purpose, but further destroys my identity.

In other words, I really shouldn't... but if their yells were anything to go by, I really needed to any way.

By the time I reached them, Ororo was making it snow harder than before. I stripped the glove off my right hand with a sigh, stuffing it in down the front of my blouse. I was wearing something that would've been considered indecent at the time of my birth, a fashion from a later century. To be honest, it was an outfit from the when I'd had a brief stint as a privateer (okay, pirate) in the eighteenth century.

The white blouse was made of loose linen and could pass for something a little more this century so long as I didn't wear the wrong things with it. Which I wasn't doing too badly that day, I swear.

The shirt was off-the-shoulder (it helped that I'd cut the sleeves to the elbow, instead) and I was wearing it with a dark green corset. A pair of dark brown trousers were modern enough to pull the look together, I hoped. I avoided ringing my eyes in kohl, so I'd say it was current enough. The boots I'd acquired last week and was wearing probably made it look better.

Regardless, I doubt anyone cares about my lack of fashion sense.

So Ororo made it snow harder and Scott fired a laser out of his glasses (I could feel my lips form the word "wicked"), sending a heavy looking bloke with long blond hair flying. The man seriously looked like a hippy, except even more unkempt.

I rolled my eyes when I realised I wasn't going to have to fight after all and retrieved my glove, sliding it back over my hand as Ororo and Scott recovered. I wrenched open the passenger door to reach the girl trapped inside and quickly stepped out of the way for Cyclops to work his... magical beam? when I found that her seat belt was stuck.

I grumbled to myself as I pulled the bloke off the front of the camper. He weighed tonnes. Seriously, I wasn't sure how I could be expected to lift him anywhere. Scott came to my aid, gesturing for me to take the girl while he took the man. With a little assistance from Ororo's miniature, controlled tornado, we were able to take the man and the girl (who was conscious and leaning on me tiredly) to the car.

We drove a short distance before parking inside a jet which almost immediately took off.

Ororo lead the girl, Rogue, to Charles, leaving Scott and I to deal with Logan or "Wolverine", as his dog tags said. I frowned when I saw his face. He looked very similar to someone I'd served in 'Nam with...

Between the two of us, Scott and I managed to drag Logan into the med-bay. A red head named Jean Grey (I'm just going to call her Mary Jane) awaited us there. She helped us heft Logan onto her observation table, but Scott convinced her to wait to test Logan until we got back to the school. We were, after all, going to be there in only an hour. It would be pretty hard to move him once she got started, too.

So Mary Jane allowed herself to be taken out of the room, her eyes landing on me suspiciously as I simply sat down next to Logan, trying to force myself to remember.

* * *

**_September 12, 1969_**

_Gunfire, dodging a spray of bullets. A grenade landed to my left and I hardly thought as I picked it up and lobbed it back. The sound of the explosion was satisfying._

_Rain poured and I was sopping wet, lost from my division. I tread the land carefully, unwilling to stumble into a trap whereupon I would be stabbed by a bamboo stick covered in faeces and die of infection after an agonising few months._

_Something rustled in the trees and I reloaded, spinning around to face Logan. He held up his hands in mock surrender before reaching for his own gun as screaming was heard from our right. He gestured that I take point and I acknowledged his judgement with a nod._

_We treaded carefully, Logan occasionally pulling me back from a spot that he thought was booby trapped. I trusted him to guide me safely to the screaming._

_"Bishop," he nodded to the left and stood with his gun drawn as I checked on the soldier laying on the ground. I felt for a pulse with my gloved hands, but found nothing. I closed his eyes sadly._

_Logan had already known, and gave me a sad look. His enhanced capabilities made him a force to be reckoned with, and those claws only served to turn him further into a dangerous weapon. "Don't bring him back," Logan advised, seeing the look in my eyes. "Who knows who's watching."_

_I nodded, stripping off my helmet and laying it on the fallen soldier's chest before running dirty fingers through my sweaty hair. I smudged dirt on my forehead on accident, but I couldn't be bothered to wipe it off. I would only get my face even dirtier._

_Logan did it for me, his brown eyes intent on mine for the moment before he said: "Aren't you worried that they'll find out you're a woman?"_

_"I don't really care anymore," I said, shivering from the downpour. It was monsoon season, and fucking hell._

_"Cold?" Logan asked, staring at me curiously._

_"A bit," I admitted with a shrug. "Nothing I won't live through and better than the fucking heat."_

_Logan smirked in agreement just as I tripped, felled by a piece of rope. "Bishop?" he questioned, helping me up. We spun around, only to be met with a whole herd of Vietcong._

_"Shit," I swore. "Good thing we're not normal, eh, Logan?"_

_He grinned, "Been looking for a fight."_

* * *

I woke up in a bed in a strange place, sweating and panting and gasping. I ran a hand down my face, realising that I must be in the school. I let out a sigh of relief before exploring the room. There were three doors; one lead to an office, which had enough bookshelves for me to fill; the other to a hallway; and the third to a bathroom.

I went to the shower stall, turning the water as hot as it would go, still freezing cold, like I'd been to Vietnam again, getting doused in rain and bullets. I could still see Logan's face when I closed my eyes, as though the memory longed to continue.

There wasn't much left of it; just Logan and I killing our attackers, both of us managing not to die and then come back to life. Then we'd looked at the carnage.

I had never really regretted killing anyone- I only attacked if I was attacked first and if you lived as long as I did, you would find out that everyone dies, some people just die younger than others. It was a cynical outlook and likely to offend some, but that's how I justified it. It's how I rendered myself capable of sleeping at night.

I shivered again as I remembered, before stepping into the scalding hot water. I scrubbed at my skin like I was covered in the grime of war, taking deep, shuddering breaths. Finally, my legs failed me and I sank to the floor, burying my face in my knees and wrapping my arms about my legs. Tears followed.

Sometimes my justification wasn't enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Ancient History

Onesmartcookie78

**A/N**: The Salem witch trials (as well as the others that occurred in England, Wales, Scotland and wherever else) were wrong and I do not condone them in any way. My character, Victoria Bishop, is based off a woman hanged for witchcraft with the same last name. The part where she says that she does not know what a witch is and the judge responds that if she does not know, how does she know that she is not one? _**actually happened in real** **life**._

Please note that I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible in this story; the historical events mentioned have been extensively researched.

Also; Erik's last name, "Lensherr" **is mistakenly spelt that way in the movie. I will be spelling it properly**, "Lehnsherr", with an _h_.

Lastly, Victoria gives nicknames. Cyclops is "Shades" and Storm is "Moneypenny". This is a dig at how Ororo answers the phone at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, causing Victoria to believe her a receptionist. It's also amusing because Halle Berry, who plays Storm, is a Bond Girl in _Die Another Day_. Jean Grey is "Mary Jane" because she has red hair. This name is taken under the pretence that Spiderman **does not exist in the Marvel-universe.**_  
_

**Summary**: Victoria Bishop was born in the 1600s, so how is she still running around in the twenty-first century? With a deadly power, it's no wonder Xavier and Magneto want her for a weapon. Set during _X-Men_. Logan/OC.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the X-Men (although I really wish I owned at least Wolverine), only Victoria and any other OCs mentioned.

{~}

_"But who can remember pain, once it's over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind."_

-Margaret Atwood

{~}

**April 2, 2004**

I got out of the shower fifteen minutes later, towelled off, and dressed. I had accidentally chosen a riding dress from the nineteenth century, but I had thankfully torn out the laces years ago in favour of a zipper. At least I only had to bother with the dress bit, not all of the other parts. No way in hell was I wearing all the layers.

As I stumbled out of my room, I heard Charles' voice in my head:

**G_o left from your room, take a right at the first intersection you come across, and your classroom in the third on the left._**

I grumbled to myself about not even being offered breakfast as I trudged down the hallway. As it turned out, I, as the teacher, was the last person in the room. The bell rang a split second after I walked in and I seated myself at my desk. I would've put my boots on the table, but I was wearing a dress, so I refrained.

"Hello," I said uncertainly. What class was this?

I was met with dead silence. "Am I teaching history or English this period?" I asked my students.

"History," someone thankfully informed me.

"Who are you?" someone else questioned.

That was met with a current of chatter, which I tried unsuccessfully to dispel for roughly five minutes.

_No more Mr. Nice Guy._

I whistled sharply and spat into the now dead silence: "Everyone _shut up_."

Eyes widened and I forced a cheery smile. "I'm aware that I'm new and you brats think you can trample all over me," I just can't keep my mouth shut. I winced at my own verbal vomit of honesty. I was too used to controlling platoons of rowdy soldiers, not children. "But I will not allow it. When I say something, I expect you to listen. When I ask a question, I expect it to be answered, with no comments from the peanut gallery. We will raise hands in this classroom. I will not tolerate anything less than what I have laid down now. '_Dura lex sed lex'_: the law is harsh, but it is the law. Is this understood." It wasn't even a question.

"Dude, what's with her outfit?" someone snickered.

I raised my eyebrows at the blatant challenge. "Mr..." I trailed off expectantly, but no one filled in the blank. "If you don't tell me, the whole class shall be punished."

At that, someone coughed inconspicuously: "Allerdyce."

I smirked. So easy for people to turn on one another at the threat of trouble. "Allerdyce, is it? Give me twenty."

The boy, blond with a cocky smirk suggesting that he was class clown, met my gaze evenly. "Make me."

"Mr. Allerdyce, I have served in the military since before this country's revolution. Do you have any idea how the military works?" I crossed my arms as some students gasped. I suppose others didn't know about the Declaration of Independence. It was a good thing I intended to be a thorough teacher. Maybe then they'd be able to marvel at my age.

"Nope," he admitted, crossing his arms in turn.

"Fantastic. Let me show you," I walked up to his desk, put my hands on it and smiled my scariest smile. It's been known to frighten even _Logan_ on occasion.

"When one joins the US military," I glanced about the room, "you lot should be taking notes," I added. Immediately, there was a mad scramble for pens and pencils an paper. Whispers of "Can I borrow _(insert school material here)_" floated around the room.

I cleared my throat, basking in the sudden silence and began again: "When one joins the US military, they swear to obey all lawful orders given to them by a superior officer or the president of the United States. If this oath is broken during war-time, the officer could very well be executed. Tell me, Mr. Allerdyce; do you want to die?" I smirked.

"You can't kill me," John countered, smirking himself.

"Can't I?" I wondered, rubbing my jaw with my left hand. I stripped off the glove for my right and continued. "Now, please note that I said 'lawful' orders. This means that any illegal orders are grounds for disobedience. Can anyone tell me where the justification 'I was only following orders' was largely used?"

Cautiously, a girl in the back of the room raised her hand. I looked up to see Rogue. "Yes, Rogue?"

"The Nuremberg Trials?" she answered, looking a bit scared.

"Correct. Is anyone else familiar with this event?" I questioned, looking a John pointedly. "Ah, yes, Mr. Allerdyce. Please _dazzle_ us with your knowledge."

Snickers followed the statement, but John held fast.

"I don't have to," John stuck out his chin.

"Very well," I shrugged, touching him with my hand. He collapsed in his seat, and his head would have hit the desk had I not caught him and lowered him to the surface. "So, anyone?"

I met the gaping mouths of the students. "Did I stutter?"

A boy sitting near Rogue raised his hand. "Yes, Mr...?"

"Drake," he supplied, swallowing. "Did you kill him?"

"Long or short answer?" I mused. "The short answer is yes." Cries of outrage which I silenced by raising a hand. _Ah, sweet control. _How I have longed for you in the face of such disrespect. Really, though, could anyone blame me for going to such extremes? It was the only way to earn respect anywhere: show power. I believe it's a Freudian concept. "The long answer is that whenever I touch someone with my right hand, they die, and whenever I touch them with my left hand-" here, I yanked off the glove on my left hand, "-the person is brought back to life." I demonstrated by touching John, who jerked straight up.

"Continuing; John, what were the Nuremberg Trials?" I repeated.

"The trials in which the Nazi leaders were convicted and it was determined that it is illegal to follow immoral commands despite them being orders," John responded distantly. It did not escape my notice that he spent the rest of the class period in silence.

"Wonderful. Any questions?"

Hands flew in the air. "You," I called on a girl sitting near Rogue and that Drake boy.

"Kitty Pryde," she told me. "When were you born?"

"Sixteen eighty-four," I said, bored. Didn't they have any more interesting questions?

"What's your name?"

I thought for a second: "Call me Miss Bishop, or ma'am." The reply was flat.

"How are you still alive?"

"It's part of my mutation." Seriously, where were the inquiring, unobvious questions?

"Why are you so bitter?" someone muttered.

"I was hanged and burned when I was eight for witchcraft. Those sorts of events tend to leave marks," I replied easily. That shut everyone up in time for the bell to ring. "Mr. Allerdyce, stay where you are," I told him warningly.

I shut the door behind the last student, then turned to John. "What did you see?" I asked quietly. He didn't even open his mouth, eyes directed at the table. "Nothing," I answered my own question. His eyes shot up to mine. "In death, there is nothing but darkness, like when you close your eyes, except a thousand times worse. You feel as though you might be crushed by the weight of it. You feel helpless and alone, when in reality, it is the opposite; there is something moving in the dark, and you don't know what it is. And that's the scariest part of all."

He nodded slowly. "I thought you couldn't die?"

I shook my head. "I said I was still alive, not that I'd never died. I have died so many times and it's the same each time. The same overwhelming solitude and emptiness. That could very well be what happens, John, when you disobey an order. You could die. There's a war brewing on the horizon, and as an older student, you need to be prepared for it. Listen to my lessons and respect me. The past tends to repeat itself, John, and you would do well to recognise the patterns, especially in war.

"Give me your twenty and then you can go."

He silently completed the push-ups, then picked his books and backpack off his desk before leaving.

**_My office, now_,** came Charles' voice in my head, followed by directions.

I groaned to myself, knowing I'd been out of bounds and I was going to be reprimanded. Unexpectedly, when I reached Charles's office, he was already occupied with Logan. I tried to back away, but I knew Logan, with his heightened instincts, would have noticed me, and Charles could easily go into my head to find out where I was.

"Victoria, come in," Charles beckoned me from my spot at the door. Logan's back was to me and if I'd been expecting him to greet and recognise me (which I had) I was severely disappointed. "Victoria, this is Logan. Logan, this is Victoria."

Logan half-turned in his chair and grunted at me. I deflated slightly. "I would say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I already know you, Logan. Do you not recognise me?" I bit my lip, eyes flitting to Charles.

The effect was instantaneous; Logan all but jumped out of his chair, pinning me to the wall with his left hand around my throat in a fluid motion. His claws came out on his right hand and stopped a millimetre from my eye. If he was looking for me to cower in fear or flinch, he was let down.

One could say I was returning the favour.

"Surprisingly, this isn't the first time we've been in this position," I laughed a little, unconcerned by his actions. He was screwing with me, trying to act like he didn't know me. "How have you been, Logan?"

**_He doesn't remember anything from his life excluding the last fifteen years, _**Charles's voice sounded solemnly in my head. **_Perhaps you can help him._**

"Really?" I shoved Logan away from me, or at least tried to. It's a wonder I didn't recognise him sooner, because he was the heaviest damn bloke I'd ever met. I should've recognised him by weight. "You don't remember the Civil War?"

At his blank expression, I continued. "How about when we met again in Vietnam? That was a fun time."

"Who the hell are you?" Logan snarled. "_What_ are you?"

"A mutant," I answered simply, shrugging my shoulders. "Now move. Or would you care to tempt Fate?" I wriggled my fingers in warning, then realised that he didn't understand what the gesture meant on my part.

Charles cleared his throat, "Speaking of tempting Fate, did you or did you not kill one of my students this morning?"

Logan's eyes shot to me and his hand tightened on my throat enough to cause discomfort and give me a hard time speaking. "I did bring him back to life," I defended myself, choking the words out as I held Logan's gaze unwaveringly.

"Regardless, that was completely unacceptable," Charles scolded me.

"Can you tell the Wolverine to release me?"

Logan scowled at me before moving away from me of his own accord.

"So other than the unfortunate death -and even more unfortunate revival- of Mr. Allerdyce, what are we discussing?" I dropped into the seat next to Logan.

Charles sighed at my impertinence. "You were much more polite the last time I saw you," he commented.

"That was, oh, forty-four years ago, I believe?" I snorted. "I've had time to immature since then."

Charles chuckled at my antics. "I was just telling Logan the purpose of this school, and filling him in on some key points."

"Like what?"

_'Please tell me it's where I can get breakfast.'_

Charles shot a look at me that read 'focus.' "Just the identity of the man who attacked him and Rogue yesterday. It was Sabretooth, a feral like Logan."

I froze, "Did you say 'Sabretooth'?"

Charles's eyebrows drew together. "Yes. Does the name mean something to you?"

"Victor Creed. If you can imagine, I was friends with him," I clutched my head as I felt the beginning of a migraine. "Shouldn't you know that with your mental snooping?"

"I've actively been trying not to go into your head," Charles reminded me. "You were the one who asked that I stay out of it."

"In that case, good show," I told him. "Anyway, I know Sabretooth through you, Logan."

Logan's fingers, which had been tapping impatiently on his thigh, paused."What do you know about me?"

I pushed my fingers to my temples, massaging them. "Can I get back to you on that? I'm going to have to go sifting through my head for everything, most likely with Chaz's help. Too many memories up here, makes remembering a bitch."

"Just tell us what you immediately know," Charles coaxed. I could feel him in my head again, controlling the flow of information to something more gradual and far less overwhelming. "From the top of your head."

Images of bodies littering the street and blood staining the pavement flew to the forefront of my thoughts. _Cities burned and armies raged through the countryside, Americans fighting Americans. Logan and I running through the streets, trying to evacuate citizens, innocents, that had been caught in the cross-fire._

I shook myself briefly out of it in order to answer: "I met you during the Civil War. We fought for the Union. You found out straightaway that I was a female because you could smell it on me, although I didn't learn that until later. I swore you to secrecy. You introduced me to Victor -that is to say, Sabretooth- but you didn't tell me how you knew him."

"I didn't find out about your mutation until I met you again in Vietnam. I was Brigadier General and you helped me cover up the fact that I was a woman. That's when we found out about each other's mutations." I thought for a second, then added mischievously, "I also happen to know that you like a good cigar."

_I could taste sweat and rain and see Logan's bone claws tearing through the thick foliage_.

_"Dammit, Bishop, get down!" Logan growled, his body slamming into mine as a grenade exploded behind us. We rolled and rolled and it felt like we were never going to stop, until we did, thanks to a rock. Logan was on top of me, both of us out of breath, too exhausted to move._

_"Logan, can't breathe, geroff me," I managed to gasp, shoving at him. He rolled to my right immediately, then rose to his feet tiredly. Still, I admired his comparative vigour._

_"We can't stay here," he warned, sniffing the air absentmindedly. "The Vietcong are coming this way."_

_"Fuck," I muttered, taking his hand to stand. "When this is done, you owe me a fucking cigar, Logan."_

_He gave me a lazy, shit-eating grin, "Nah-uh, sweetheart, you owe me one first for saving your sorry arse."_

_"Nice to see you again too, Victor!" I called into the open air, seeing Creed come out from behind a tree, sniggering._

"How close were you to Logan?" the professor asked, snapping me out of it again. It was almost like Logan wasn't in the room, but for the ghosts of my past.

Speaking of, at that moment I met Logan's eyes. He searched mine, frowning at what he found there. How did I put this? Logan was not the sort to make many friends. I may have considered him one, but who knows what he thought, even then. Then there was the fact that I was very, very attracted to him. That didn't help anything.

"I'd say we were friends, but you're a very private man," I decided on. "It was always hard to tell what you were thinking and I got the feeling you weren't a people person." _Understatement of the century. _"I don't know how old you are, only that you're younger than me."

"Great, so he's anywhere between three hundred twenty and one hundred twenty five," Charles said. "At least we have a general idea."

_'You're assuming that he was at least eighteen when he joined the army?'_ I thought.

Charles nodded at me in confirmation.

"Not much of a lead, really; towns are notoriously awful at record-keeping in that time period. When I was born, my name was simply written on the town's register. My birth certificate was buried with me. If they can pull shit like that, who's to say what happened to the register? Not to mention, you're assuming he's American. What if he's Canadian? English?" I mused, leaning back in the seat and crossing my legs.

Both of then were staring at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Buried?" Logan questioned at the same time Charles muttered: "Back to square one."

I ignored Charles. "Yup. Buried. After I was hanged. For witchcraft."

"The way you go around talking about your death like you don't care is disconcerting, Victoria," Charles sent me a worried look. "If you need to tal-"

"It's been three hundred twelve years since it happened. You'd think I'd have talked to a psychiatrist by now," I muttered. "It's not a big deal, Chaz. Things happen."

"I disagree," Charles said adamantly. "It's not every day and eight year old girl accidentally kills her mother, brings her mother back to life, is accused of witchcraft by her father, put on trial, and hanged. Then wakes up a few hours later, having been buried alive, digs her way out of her own grave and is so convinced that she's a witch she goes to the judge who sentenced her to death and tells him it's God's will that she be purified of her sins. Which consists of being burned on a cross."

I'd never told anyone the whole story. Not even Logan, who would've been my first and only choice.

"You forgot the 'and her ashes scattered in the ocean' bit. Also; I blame the water. There was probably something in it. You know how well water is, very likely to contain arsenic," I drawled, biting my lip anxiously. "Oh, and I hope you don't go 'round spilling people's very private pasts to just anyone. I was saving the whole story for someone special." There was no real bite to the remark, even though I was a bit angry. I mean, if I was going to tell anyone the whole story, it would definitely be Logan, but I would've preferred that he have his memories first.

Charles just shook his head at me.

"Witchcraft?" Logan asked, brows raised.

"Salem," I said, turning my eyes to the window. It was sunny, but I could feel a storm brewing on the horizon. What had happened yesterday with Logan and Rogue wasn't coincidental. It was only the beginning.

* * *

"Hey, Chaz?" I said suddenly, interrupting his speech on the school which I should have been listening to.

"Yes, Victoria?" he looked at me nervously, like my mind was a fragile thing and he needed to walk on eggshells around me.

"What happened to Erik? Your friend in Central Park that day, when you tried to recruit me for your mutanist cult," my eyebrows furrowed as I wondered why I hadn't been reintroduced to the man who had moved a chess piece in front of me with his mind so many years ago. "Did your bromance fall apart?"

Logan laughed a bit at my phrasing.

"He's known as Magneto now," Charles said solemnly. "He's the one who sent Sabretooth after Logan and Rogue."

"Well, shit," I murmured. "Must've been one hell of a break-up."

If I had known that the "break-up" had put Charles in a wheelchair (accidentally, of course), I probably would've been more sensitive in my quip.

* * *

After Charles finished filling us in on the importance of the school, he gave us a tour. I wondered why the others were having the bloke in the wheelchair show us around, but I assumed that they must have classes.

I had a horrible feeling, upon the conclusion of the tour, that I was going to be hopelessly lost. Logan, I knew, would have no such problem- he was way too damn good with directions.

Charles left us in the kitchen and I busied myself pouring some cereal into a bowl. As embarrassing as it was, I had never managed to not burn any food I tried to cook. Despite all of my scientific experiments, I was an absolute failure in the kitchen.

Logan surprised me by finding a frying pan, eggs, onions and peppers and making himself an omelette. I watched his hands as he worked; strong, calloused, big hands that moved swiftly, surely. He had long fingers. Nice, dexterous hands, capable of ripping my throat out or caressing me.

_"How do you always manage to get dirt all over your face?" I asked Logan, snickering at him as he, Victor and I sat around our designated campfire. We were awaiting orders from Lincoln right now and our reluctant leader, General Ambrose Burnside, was allowing us a break as he awaited a telegram. I say "reluctant" because General Burnside took this position partially due to a dislike of who was next in the chain of command if he refused._

_"It's a talent," Victor said proudly, clapping Logan on the back. I smiled at the interaction- the two were such great friends. I had to wonder how long they'd known each other. "One that you seem to share in, Bishop," he gestured vaguely toward my left cheek._

_"I blame Logan," I shrugged, ignoring his glare._

_"I wouldn't anger him," Victor teased, then said in a sing-song: "Remember what _we know_."_

_My smile faded. "You wouldn't dare."_

_Logan smirked: "Hey!" he called everyone to attention. I sat, frozen. For such a small remark, really? "Bishop has something he'd like to share!"  
_

_Victor promptly shoved me to my feet. "I was just saying that I hope the Potomac receives orders soon," I recovered anticlimactically. _Sons of bitches, when I got my hands around the two of their necks...

_"Cheers to that!" someone shouted, and glasses were raised. Were they honestly happy to be killing fellow Americans? None of this felt right..._

_Our next orders were to seize Richmond, Virginia. The Battle of Fredericksburg. So many unnecessary lives were wasted that day._

When Logan noticed that I was blatantly staring at him, he grumbled: "What?"

"Didn't know you could cook," I replied, shrugging. "I never pictured you doing anything so... domestic."

Logan gave me a strange look.

"You'll have to understand that I've never seen you outside a wartime setting," I reminded him.

Except for that one time...

I deliberately pulled my thoughts in a different direction. "Anyway," I checked my pocket watch, seeing that I still had an hour and a half until my next class. "I'm going to see how fast I can get lost around here. If my students say that their teacher is missing, please come find me."

Logan snorted. "You have such a way with words, Victory."

I whirled, the name striking a chord. Did he remember something? "What did you call me?" I choked out, staring at him with wide eyes.

"'Victory'," he repeated, unconcerned, flipping his omelette. He didn't even look up. When I said nothing, he explained: "I hate 'Victoria' and it fits."

I bit my lip. "You don't know anything about me," I finally said angrily. It wasn't the same when he called me that. He didn't know the meaning behind it. He had no idea why he had called me that and had no right to do so now when he didn't remember me.

His eyes met mine, "I have a feeling I know more about you than even Wheels, but it's buried right now," he said shrewdly. He turned the burner off and stalked towards me, brandishing the turner at me. "When I remember, though, I'm going to find out what crawled up your arse and died."

I opened and closed my mouth as he spun on his heel, sliding his omelette onto his plate. I could feel his eyes following me as I marched indignantly out of the room, and God help me if I didn't sway my hips more than usual.


	4. Chapter 4

Ancient History 4

Onesmartcookie78

**A/N**: The Salem witch trials (as well as the others that occurred in England, Wales, Scotland and wherever else) were wrong and I do not condone them in any way. My character, Victoria Bishop, is based off a woman hanged for witchcraft with the same last name. The part where she says that she does not know what a witch is and the judge responds that if she does not know, how does she know that she is not one? actually happened in real life.

Please note that I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible in this story; the historical events mentioned have been extensively researched.

Also; Erik's last name, "Lensherr" is mistakenly spelt that way in the movie. I will be spelling it properly, "Lehnsherr", with an h.

Lastly, Victoria gives nicknames. Cyclops is "Shades" and Storm is "Moneypenny". This is a dig at how Ororo answers the phone at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, causing Victoria to believe her a receptionist. It's also amusing because Halle Berry, who plays Storm, is a Bond Girl in Die Another Day. Jean Grey is "Mary Jane" because she has red hair. This name is taken under the pretence that Spiderman does not exist in the Marvel-universe.

**And thanks so much to all my reviewers!**

**Summary**: Victoria Bishop was born in the 1600s, so how is she still running around in the twenty-first century? With a deadly power, it's no wonder Xavier and Magneto want her for a weapon. Set during X-Men. Logan/OC.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the X-Men (although I really wish I owned at least Wolverine), only Victoria and any other OCs mentioned.

* * *

_"When we are tired, we are attacked by ideas we conquered long ago."_

–Friedrich Nietzsche

_"The past is never dead. It's not even past."_

– William Faulkner,_ Requiem for a Nun_

_"No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path."_

– Gautama Buddha, _Sayings of Buddha_

* * *

**April 3, 2004**

I followed hallways where they would take me, keeping track of my turns in a bid to refrain from losing myself hopelessly in the maze. I soon got confused, unable to think backwards when I tried to retrace my steps. I checked my pocket watch and found that my next class started in five minutes.

"Shit," I hissed. I was distracted by the time and tripped over a loose floorboard. I recovered, but something made me pause:

A loose floorboard?

I dropped to my knees and examined the offending object. I didn't exactly have the time for it, but something about it had really caught my attention and I was hopelessly lost anyway. Might as well look now, since I would probably never be able to find my way back.

I shifted the floorboard back in place and heard a mechanical click. My head swung to the left and I saw that a picture of a bird in flight had slid to the left.

_'I've read too many Nancy Drew books.'_

I sighed and took out my pocket notebook and pen. The things one can shove down their shirt when they're female. Always be prepared.

I drew a picture of the loose floorboard, and an arrow indicating that it needed to be pushed into place. I drew an asterisk and wrote in cursive 'click' then closed the onomatopoeia with another asterisk. I drew a followup arrow depicting the bird painting and its skew to the left.

Finally, I put the picture back in order, but nothing happened. I frowned, running my fingers over the engravings on the frame. I found one that I could push and did so- the wall moved to reveal a secret passageway and the floorboard popped up again. I indicated on my map the approximate location of the button and wrote 'push', then stepped through the door.

Instantly, my claustrophobic mind regretted the decision.

As if it could sense that I had walked in, the door slammed shut of its own accord behind me. I jumped at the unexpected turn of events as I was sealed in the darkness. My breath came out in pants as I pushed frantically on the wall, trying to get out. But I couldn't. I was trapped.

I could feel my heart racing like I'd just run a marathon, because it was suddenly too small and too dark and there was no way out.

* * *

**December 31, 1692**

_Stuck in a coffin. Confusion, uncertainty._

I know I'm not a witch.

_Recall cheers from crowd, chants of _"Witch!"_, jeering. Food is thrown as they tie the knot binding me to my imminent hanging._

"She's a witch! Hang her now, before she kills us all!"

But I'm not! I didn't mean to kill her! Mum, dad, tell them!

_Dad is dragging mum away, assuring her that the townsfolk are doing the right thing._

Don't believe him, mum! I didn't mean to! Please forgive me! I'm not a witch!

_The wood shifts under my feet until it's replaced with air. __I'm free falling and I know these will be my last few moments of living. I want to cry, but there's no time, only pain in my neck and the roar of the crowd as the rope fails to immediately snap my neck. Suffocation._

_The crowd riots:_ "The witch is dead! Woohoo!"_ they all champion the executor. They're sick, bloodthirsty. Afraid of the unknown, of what could be._

_But that's what happened before, so what's happening now? __The answer is simple: I'm not dead. I'm alive._

My Lord must want me to be purified by flames. My death must have disgraced him.

_Frenetic beating against the wood does nothing at_ _first_.

It's so very small in here, let me out!

_Slowly, the few inches of dirt covering my grave start to give._

Please! Let me out, I'm dying in here all over again! This isn't the way God wants me to die!

_They didn't bury me deeply at all, but there's no air and my arms are so weak and my neck hurts and it's so very hard to move._

I'm not a witch!

_My thoughts are jumbled._

_I can still recall the crowd shouting:_"Witch, witch, she's a witch!"

_Just want to escape the darkness. It's all around me. I can't get out. I'm choking all over again. I'm gasping for air that's never going to come when, suddenly, I make headway. But it's just as dark outside as it is underground. I cry._

* * *

I somehow shook myself out of the memory that haunts my dreams after a venture into an enclosed space and took calming breaths as I stuck my head between my knees. My eyes closed, but the darkness wasn't going to go away (it never would) and inside my head felt too small. Not to mention I kept seeing flashes of flames licking at an eight year old's body, charring flesh and-

I shivered at the cold and reached out to touch the wall. The tangibility grounded me in a way, even though it was damp and slick with moisture. I pulled my hand back, then realised that I didn't have a torch, so the wall would have to guide me anyway.

I crinkled my nose as I edged along. It was slow going and I tripped more than a few times. Ten minutes later, I had to stop because I hit a wall. '_Thank goodness, I can finally get out.'_ Figuring I'd reached the end (and hoping that the passage hadn't branched off on the other side), I felt along the wall for something, anything, that would get me out.

Oh, God, what if there was not way out?

My left hand connected desperately with a crack in the wall and I traced it, hoping it would lead to a way out. _'I need to get out, now!'_ At the bottom of the wall, the crack branched off. I kept my left hand on the main crack and traced each of the lines until I found a button. Sighing in relief, I hit it and the wall slid up.

I pushed my way out to find that I was in the kitchen. I took a lungful of fresh air, coughing from the wet, heavy air of the secret passage way. I checked my watch; there were still twenty minutes of my class period left. I cursed and half-ran down the hallway, scribbling that the passage lead to the kitchen. Maybe I could activate it from the kitchen side as well?

As I was writing, I crashed into a wall. I fell, but the wall caught me. Definitely not a wall. Logan stood in front of me, raising an eyebrow.

"What are you doing? You smell," he paused, looking for the right word, "damp."

I raised both of my eyebrows at him, waiting for the innuendo to catch up with his brain.

He just smirked. So he'd meant it as a double entendre.

"I was crawling around in a secret passageway. I like being on my knees," I said, stepping past him and practically running away. I wasn't nervous or anything, I just needed to go teach a lesson. Of this, I swear.

When I reached my classroom, it wasn't the chaos I'd imagined it might be. No one was swinging from the lights, there was no orgy, and no one had set anything on fire. They were just calmly sitting in their seats and talking. I must have made an impression earlier.

"This is English class, yes?" I asked, sitting at my desk and crossing my legs. "Everyone take out a book and read. Do homework if you want. Just read and stay silent." And with that, I pulled out my Nancy Drew novel to see if there was any other way to find a secret passage.

When classes for the day were over, Charles called all of us to the lab. He asked Jean and I to conduct a biopsy (okay, I'm exaggerating; he just wanted X-rays and a blood sample study) on Logan. Jean agreed immediately and looked at me almost as though she was daring me to accept.

Slowly, I nodded and was questioned by Mary Jane and Logan on if I was qualified to be doing the sort of work I would be on him.

"Honey," I told Mary Jane sweetly, "I have gone to college more years than you have been alive. I have studied more than you ever will and know enough about anatomy that I dissected myself. I think I know a thing or two about drawing blood and taking pictures utilising a machine that conducts-"

From the look on her face, I should've added a "could" in front of "dissect". Dammit. Maybe next time.

"She's dissected herself?" Mary Jane's voice raised fractionally. "She's clearly unstable, professor; you can't let her-"

"I trust Victoria," Charles defended me. "She has a masters in physics, biology, and anatomy as well as PHDs. She did a residency with a renowned surgeon a few years ago. She's more than experienced."

"She just admitted that she's basically experimented on herself-"

"I actually never said that, though now that you mention it..." I mused, enjoying making Mary Jane angry. Maybe it was because of how she looked at Logan, but the way others had interacted with him had never bothered me before.

"Did you or did you not?" Mary Jane whirled on me, face flushed.

"It was a dark time and science had advanced so much," I shrugged. It wasn't that big of a deal, was it? I hand't done anything _I _felt uncomfortable with, and that was all that mattered, right? I could still look at myself in the mirror and not turn away after a minute; granted, it was with a certain wretched mix of disgust, guilt, and self-loathing– though I didn't know how to name the feelings when I searched my reflection; I only knew that I felt an inescapable, undefinable _something_ that was capable of making me feel sick to my very bones. But I could still sleep at night. Why should it bother them, then?

"In fact," I added with a measure of blatant amusement, "That's how I found out I was a mutant, actually– and that the appendix doesn't actually do anything in humans. I want to run that one again, though," I mused. "Logan, you game?"

Everyone looked at me like I was stark-raving mad.

"Are you telling me," Mary Jane said slowly, "that you removed your own appendix?"

"I was testing a theory," I answered, crossing my arms over my chest.

"What sort of theory could possibly involve an appendectomy!?" she shrieked.

Logan winced at the volume.

"The discovery that whenever I die, someone dies in my place. Before I slit my wrists that one time to find out how much blood a human can lose before dying-"

"You did what?" Charles looked very upset by now, and so did everyone else.

I blundered on, "-I had died relatively normal deaths for the time period. Hanged for witchcraft, burned for witchcraft, murdered in a mugging. Those were not uncommon things to die from.

"But in a small town where everyone insists that the victim was happy and had no reason to commit suicide? Well, I got suspicious. So I had to make my death something really strange. I was curious to see the purpose of the appendix anyway, but was disappointed when it didn't work; I had lived.

"I found out later that when I die, someone else dies in my place. A life for a life, as it were," I finished.

There was dead quiet.

"How did you find that out?" Scott questioned softly, like he was afraid of the answer.

Charles put his face in his hands.

I stood still for a moment. I had brought it up. It was only fair that I end it. I always did. I bit my lip, "I buried myself alive, and when I woke up a few deaths later after fighting my way out of the ground, I found out that a group of three or four women had done the same." I closed my eyes. "Like I said, a very dark time for me.

"Now are we going to do this or not?" I met Charles's eyes, practically begging him to allow me to. I looked to Mary Jane next, but no love was won there; her eyes were hard, accusing, and a little scared. I flicked over to Scott, but he was hard to read. Next to Ororo, who seemed to think I was an abused puppy. I wanted desperately to snort.

Finally, I connected with Logan. He wore no expression, just seemed to be examining me for all I was worth, like I was the one under the microscope. Whatever he found seemed to satiate him, because he nodded to me, granting me permission.

"If I trust you and Logan does," Charles snapped Logan and me out of our staring contest, "then I see no problem with it. So long as you have his approval, in fact, I will allow you to conduct any tests you see fit."

I smiled gratefully at the pair of them, and Logan smirked a bit back. I was fairly certain he was incapable of actually smiling, so I left him alone.

Mary Jane scoffed, "I refuse to work with her," she proclaimed, the finality in her tone evident; we had all made our decisions and she had made hers.

"Fine, then," I conceded. "If Logan's alright with it, we can conduct separate tests on him and compile the data. Who knows, maybe we'll be able to find more that way," I said diplomatically, looking to her for a response. "How does that sound?"

Mary Jane sniffed, but agreed. "Who goes first?"

"Flip a goddamn coin," Logan growled, fed up with our passive-aggressive behaviour, "before I decide I don't want you sticking things in me any more."

"I'm pretty sure it's the other way 'round," I mumbled quietly enough that only he could hear. Logan's eyes shot to me and he raised an eyebrow in amusement. "You can have dibs first, Mary Jane," I told her, shrugging. "I don't mind waiting. I have all the time in the world."

"It's 'Jean'," she corrected me, pulling on her lab coat.

Oh, right, I hadn't told her the nickname I'd come up with yet.

"I know, but I give everyone nicknames," I explained. "It's just the red hair... you've never seen the _Spiderman_ movie, have you?"

Mary Jane looked at me blankly, and I swept my eyes over the room. Ororo gave me a thumbs-up and winked. I knew she had good taste in movies! Scott just shrugged and Logan nodded slightly, as though he understood-maybe-okay-only-a-little-bit-alright-not-at-all.

I cleared my throat, "Go on then, Mary Jane, whilst I'm still relatively young."

Ororo coughed to hide her laughter and shifted to stand next to me whilst Mary Jane huffed and pulled Logan into the lab. "Victoria, we've got to have a movie marathon one time," she put her hand gently on my arm and squeezed. "And don't let Jean get to you," she dropped her voice so that Scott couldn't hear, "she's just jealous that you and Logan have history and she's attracted to him."

I groaned, "I thought I was the only one who noticed that she all but dropped to her knees and begged for him to-"

Ororo laughed. "Shush! She's engaged to Scott, she would never do that!"

"That's certainly not how it looked," I grumbled, biting my lip.

Ororo hesitated, her brown eyes reluctant. "Were you and Logan ever-?"

"No," I said quickly, then laughed reassuringly. "No. Whenever I met him though, I would have his undivided attention. He's hard to win over, but once you do, he's fiercely loyal. During the Civil War, he decided he could trust me, at least in a combat setting, and he protected my secret. When we met again in Vietnam and confessed our mutations, he was once again a constant at my side.

"That's why I'm jealous; whenever I see him, I'm used to him being practically attached to my hip and ready to rip apart anyone who finds out something about me that they shouldn't," I assured her.

Ororo squeezed my arm again. "How much does it hurt that he doesn't remember?"

Her words hit me like a truck.

* * *

**January 13, 1975**

_"If you see me, don't be a stranger," I pleaded as Logan and Victor packed their stuff. They had killed a high-ranking officer, though I didn't know much about it; rumour had it from the chain of command that the officer had been on our side, but it was also said he was the enemy. Either way, the Wolverine and Sabretooth were due to be executed via firing squad. Fortunately, no one but me knew their little party tricks._

_Logan turned to me as he slung his pack over his soldier. "Only if you stop going to war and posing as a man so that I don't need to save your sorry arse," he smirked, leaning closer mischievously to murmur in my ear: "it's a nice arse, though."_

_I laughed with him and hugged him. He immediately stiffened, seeming awkward, before his hands came up to close around me. "Take care, Logan," I reminded him, kissing him on the cheek._

_I turned to leave, only for Logan to grab my arm, swing me around, slam me into a tree and slant his mouth heatedly over mine. I shivered, breathing in the taste of Logan and memorising the feel of him as he kissed me fervently, desperately, like he would never see me again. And who knows; the world is large and it was possible that the two of us wouldn't meet again for centuries._

Which would be why he's kissing you like you're water and he's a man in the desert.

_His right hand came to rest to the left of my head, his left hand on my hip. His tongue found its way into my mouth and I tangled my fingers in his hair, murmuring his name._

_He pulled back fractionally, allowing his eyes to connect with mine for a second. His blue-grey eyes, flecked with gold that I'd never noticed, glowed in the dimming light. His mouth lingered from my skin long enough for me to see the desire in his orbs before his lips found the pulse humming on my neck._

_He smelt like the rain, gunpowder and the woods, similar to me and everyone else stationed here, as well as something masculine and just plain Logan. His lips on mine were electric and shivers went down my spine. I bit his lip and he growled in return, pressing against me further._

_"Logan, let's go. We don't want to keep our executioners waiting," Sabretooth drawled in a creepy sing-song voice._

_Logan rested his forehead on mine, his blue-grey eyes scrutinising my face. His lips brushed against mine again and then my forehead. "I'll see you later," he promised (or at least, I hoped he did), as he stalked away. He never once looked back._

* * *

Maybe I had lied to Ororo a bit. But I'd hardly consider one good snog to be "a thing". Nor did my thoughts often stray towards that memory, which is also a lie.

"It hurts more than you can imagine. It feels as though he ripped the still-beating heart from my chest and had his fun tearing it to shreds. Then, to add insult to injury, Mary Jane stopped by in her stilettos and happened to curb stomp it a few times," I confessed softly.

Ororo didn't try to console me with false words, "Girl, tonight we are watching whatever movie you want to with some of your favourite ice cream."

I grinned at her; this was the type of female friend I wanted.

* * *

A few hours later, I was snapping latex gloves on my hands as I hovered over Logan. His eyes were shut, though they popped open when he felt my gaze on him. After staring at each other silently for a few minutes, he grumbled: "If you have something to say, say it."

I hesitated, taking the second to plunge the needle in his arm in order to draw blood. "It's nothing, just... thank you for trusting me." I turned to get another phial off the prep-tray, setting the filled one down. The action was carefully timed so that he couldn't see my face. "You reacted in my favour despite my..." I swallowed thickly. _Horror stories._ "-revelations."

The hand of the arm I wasn't drawing blood from caught my fingers as I went to screw the second phial into place, diverting my gaze to his eyes. There was a deeper understanding in them than I would've thought he'd get out of my remark- he knew that his trust meant more to me than the blind trust of a stranger. Because I knew him, even if he didn't remember me right now. His perceptiveness surprised me.

"I don't know how far this trust you gift me with extends, so let me know when I cross a line." I gestured for him to follow me so I could take X-rays, "Which I might do in a second," I breathed as I saw his skeleton. Every inch of it was coated in adamantium. I could guess due to the shine of the metal, but there was only one way to tell. "Logan, how do you feel about diamonds?"

Logan's eyebrows shot up, "Depends- what do you plan on doing with them?"

"Nothing damaging," I said hastily, reaching for a diamond edged scalpel that I'd bought a while back. I'd gotten a matching pair during my brief stint as a thief a few years ago. "Just... adamantium, supposedly the strongest substance on earth, has been surgically grafted over your whole skeleton. Stick out your claws for me?" I asked, stepping closer.

Logan eyed the scalpel wearily before meeting my gaze. I gave him a charming smile and he sighed, letting the claws shoot out of his right hand. I gestured for him to move closer to me, knowing he wanted to feel like he was in control with the dangerous claws he had out. He rolled his eyes, taking measured steps towards me. I held out my left hand and motioned for him to put his right in mine.

I didn't look up to see the speculative, exasperated expression on his face. I knew it was there though. When his hand landed on mine, electricity surged through my body. I fought to keep the attraction in check, knowing he'd smell it, but he said nothing if he did.

I lowered the scalpel to his claw (how had it escaped my notice earlier in Xavier's office that his bone claws had turned into metal?) and carefully sliced at it. The blade of my scalpel promptly snapped in half.

"Son of a bitch!" I hissed.

Logan, who hadn't been paying attention, retracted his claws and jumped away from me like I'd burned him before snatching both my hands up, causing me to drop the scalpel. I caught my breath sharply in response, then realised he was looking to see if I'd cut myself.

I laughed a bit, "The scalpel broke in half, Logan, I didn't-"

"Yes you did," he held my left hand up in front of face, showing me a bit of blood.

"Oh," I relaxed. "It's nothing. Anyway, that confirms that it's adamantium."

"Jean didn't talk while we were doing this," Logan muttered.

"Just letting you know my findings," I bristled at being compared to the redhead, and Logan noticed, but didn't comment. "Now take your shirt off, I want to run a few more tests."


	5. Chapter 5

Ancient History

Onesmartcookie78

**A/N**: The Salem witch trials (as well as the others that occurred in England, Wales, Scotland and wherever else) were wrong and I do not condone them in any way. My character, Victoria Bishop, is based off a woman hanged for witchcraft with the same last name. The part where she says that she does not know what a witch is and the judge responds that if she does not know, how does she know that she is not one? actually happened in real life.

Please note that I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible in this story; the historical events mentioned have been extensively researched.

Also; Erik's last name, "Lensherr" is mistakenly spelt that way in the movie. I will be spelling it properly, "Lehnsherr", with an _h_.

Lastly, Victoria gives nicknames. Cyclops is "Shades" and Storm is "Moneypenny". This is a dig at how Ororo answers the phone at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, causing Victoria to believe her a receptionist. It's also amusing because Halle Berry, who plays Storm, is a Bond Girl in _Die Another Day_. Jean Grey is "Mary Jane" because she has red hair. This name is taken under the pretense that Spiderman does not exist in the Marvel-universe,

**Summary**: Victoria Bishop was born in the 1600s, so how is she still running around in the twenty-first century? With a deadly power, it's no wonder Xavier and Magneto want her for a weapon. Set during _X-Men_. Logan/OC.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the X-Men (although I really wish I owned at least Wolverine), only Victoria and any other OCs mentioned.

**INCLUDES DEATH, MENTIONS OF SELF-MUTILATION, AND WOLVERINE HOTNESS.**

* * *

_"'Does it hurt?' The childish question had escaped Harry's lips before he could stop it. _

_'Dying? Not at all,' said Sirius. 'Quicker and easier than falling asleep.'"_

– J.K. Rowling's _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

* * *

_"Don't feel bad, I'm usually about to die."_

– Rick Riordan's _The Battle of the Labyrinth_

* * *

**April 3, 2004**

Mary Jane gestured to the X-rays hung up behind her: "-it's been grafted to his entire skeleton."

I hadn't been paying attention. I could've told them that before Mary Jane did her oh-so-important experiments. Logan had, after all, tried to kill me with his claws earlier today. Really, all she'd succeeded in doing was "finding" a whole bunch of information that I already knew. I didn't know what the point of her "tests" had been if her discoveries were so inconsequential.

"-he could be older than you, Professor," Mary Jane concluded.

I rolled my eyes, "I've known him since the Civil War- of course he is!" I looked at her like she was stupid.

Mary Jane bristled, "I wasn't aware-"

"That's because you don't bother to listen to me if it doesn't suit your immediate," _sexual_, "interests." I didn't bother to keep the resentful tone out of my voice. Charles was already well aware of how I felt, simply because he could get inside my head; Logan could smell it; Mary Jane wasn't an idiot; and good ol' Ororo had actually asked me, like a nice person.

Scott was the only one oblivious to my hatred.

Or was it jealousy?

I shook the thought away.

And there was a reason Mary Jane held onto Logan's every word, and it was not the same "he's my mentor" mentality she had for Charles. It was because she was shamelessly attracted to -no, falling in love with- Logan, despite being engaged to or dating Scott. I didn't really care which one it was, only that she was going to crush the poor bloke's feelings because she didn't know how to keep it in her pants.

"I'm sorry, Chaz," I looked at him for the first time since my outburst; I could see the disappointment colouring his eyes,"but I can't do this. It's a complete waste of time. None of the data either of us has discovered is 'new', and the only thing I have to add to Mary Jane's lecture is that it could be possible to cure cancer through Logan's blood."

"That's-" Scott started, voice incredulous.

"-incredible," Ororo breathed.

"-worth looking into," added Charles.

"-ridiculous," Mary Jane said flatly.

Logan didn't even open his mouth.

I glared at Mary Jane, but refused to speak to her. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in the lab. Moneypenny, I'm taking you up on movie night, but how about tomorrow, okay?"

"Wait!" called Charles before I could leave.

I sighed- so close. I didn't bother to turn around, "Yes?"

"What do you think Magneto wants with him?" Charles questioned.

"'Magneto'?" I repeated, unsure. "Oh, you mean Erik bitch-I-play-chess-with-my-mind Lehnsherr, your boyfriend. Well, Logan's made of metal, and he can control metal. Is it a leap to say that he could control Logan? No. But what if Logan was simply in the way of his real target?

"If Logan were a chess piece, for Erik, he'd be a pawn; easy to manipulate; decently replaceable– ferals aren't uncommon, and he's always got Sabretooth.

"Rogue... Rogue, on the other hand, is a game changer; she's powerful, unpredictable, and can be moved in any direction. She's the queen, and whoever takes the queen gets the board. Rogue is the most valuable piece..." I trailed off, lost in thought.

Suddenly things clicked into place- Logan had existed for longer than Erik. If Erik had wanted Logan, he could have obtained him long ago- Logan had known Sabretooth and Sabretooth worked for Erik. Rogue? Rogue was new, shiny. And Erik liked shiny. She had just discovered her powers and Logan had just so happened to be in the way. Capturing both of them would have been icing on the cake, but taking Rogue had been the objective all along.

"Don't let Rogue out of your sight," I ordered, spinning around suddenly. I had interrupted whatever the group had been saying, but what I was telling them was much more imperative. "He wants her, Erik... I don't know why, but it has something to do with the fact that she can absorb other mutants' powers, and I don't need to tell you, Chaz, that we won't like whatever he's planning. Just... keep her safe. She's the key."

All of them stared at me, but my eyes sought Logan's. He returned my gaze solemnly; I knew he could be trusted to look after the teen, and so did he. He nodded just the slightest bit at me, and I felt some of the tension leave my muscles. I hand't even noticed how stiff I was until the rigidity was gone.

"We will," Ororo promised me sadly. From the poignant look in her eyes, she had watched Logan and I closely just then. Her expression was placid, but inquiring. I gave her a look that hopefully conveyed the short message "later" and left.

* * *

An hour later, I sat in the lab examining a blood sample I'd taken from Logan under the microscope. I'd also managed to extract some of my own blood for comparison. I could see nothing wrong with his blood; in fact, his HDL levels were high, which was good.

So, I went about preparing the tissue samples I'd taken from him and myself (careful to label them) for DNA extraction. They wouldn't be ready for at least another twelve hours, which I was grateful for; I could tell the less scientifically inclined that they needed to be dealt with in exactly twelve hours and needed constant monitoring. That way, I could have an excuse not to go to dinner whilst simultaneously avoiding awkward conversation.

It also gave me an excuse not to sleep- after my dream last night and the flashback today, I really wasn't looking to hit my R.E.M. cycle. I resolved to take a short nap late at night when everyone was guaranteed to be in bed.

So, I sat in the lab, preparing the tissues in their test tubes for DNA extraction. The process took me fifteen minutes total, after which I put them in the refrigerator at a controlled temperature. Unsure of how to occupy myself with the beautiful lab equipment, I sat there thinking for a while.

What could I do for twelve hours in the lab? The equipment was better than anything I'd ever had, but I'd sworn off full-on experimentation. The last time I'd done it, I had died painfully a few weeks later from infection. So no more sawing off body parts and seeing where I could get away with sewing them back to.

That was a really long time ago though, back when I fancied myself a regular Frankenstein.

Actually, it might have been shortly after the book was released.

Years tend to blend together.

I also had a feeling that Charles would be unhappy if I did another one of my tests (I wasn't kidding about re-testing the appendix theory) and I wasn't willing to sacrifice my well-being for extensive surgery when I could _smell _war in the air. I wasn't stupid, despite popular belief.

Well, everything would be alright if I did something that would kill me. Some innocent bastard would die for me though. A woman of the age to be married with kids. I shook my head at the uninvited thoughts. I didn't want to think about it; that would be inviting nightmares.

The thoughts of what I could do that would kill me flashed through my head, unbidden. Can the phrase "running around like a chicken with its head cut off" (which they do, in fact, do) apply to a human? That was one that I'd need help for though, and would require an axe. Next came my theory on-

No. I couldn't.

But the mechanics of it were fascinating!

I forced thoughts of purposely drowning or suffocating myself in order to count how many brain cells were lost in each of the practices away.

I settled for injecting tracers in my system so that the next time I died, I could see how my cells repaired themselves. Then, I took out a sheet of paper and peered at Logan's blood under the microscope to figure out how to make a cure for cancer out of it.

* * *

**April 4, 2004**

Around midnight, I forced myself out of the lab (where half-finished mathematics detailing how to cure to cancer lay on the table) and into my room. I was changing into a nightgown, the white kind that they sacrifice virgins in, when a noise from the wall to my left distracted me. Curious, I padded barefoot into the hallway and went to the door next to mine.

Rogue was hesitating at the doorway and I got a bad taste in my mouth. There was only one person she trusted enough to check on in the middle of the night, and only one person who had the right to have nightmares so terrible.

"Rogue!" I whispered fiercely as she fingered the doorknob.

The poor blond moved her hand from the knob so suddenly, you'd have thought it shocked her. "I wasn't trying to-"

"I know," I put a hand on her shoulder, making sure not to touch the skin. She flinched slightly still and I realised that I wasn't wearing my own gloves. "It requires skin-to-skin contact, too, Rogue," I told her blandly. "Now let's see if we can help him."

Rogue nodded, opening the door. We shifted quietly to Logan's bed, hearing his pained moans and seeing him tossing violently, his sheets twisted around him.

"Whatever you do, do not touch him," I warned her softly, eyeing his shivering form warily. "You don't want to shock him; in his dreams he's facing an enemy, and startling him awake will blur the lines between sleep and reality for him. He may not be able to distinguish between you and who he's fighting."

"You sound like you have experience with that," Rogue commented, looking between Logan and I sadly.

I forced a thin smile, "I'm a scientist, and I've seen my fair share of nightmare inducing traumas."

Rogue couldn't find anything to say to that, and so began whispering "Logan!" over and over.

When it became clear that the tactic wasn't going to work on top of the fact that his dream was getting progressively worse, I ordered Rogue to the hallway. She obeyed, though her easy submission had me worried that she would look in before I cleared it for her.

I'd dealt with Logan before while he slept and had nightmares. None of them had ever been this bad in Vietnam, prompting me to believe it was about whatever cruel process he'd undergone between the current date and Vietnam to graft his skeleton in adamantium. No doubt it had hurt like hell.

Regardless, the principle was still the same; shake him, and then quickly jump back to avoid being stabbed. If I was lucky, I would make it through without dying.

I grumbled to myself about annoying Wolverine and his habit of killing me before shaking his shoulder briefly and darting back. I wasn't quick enough, because when he woke up snarling, his claws sunk into my chest. I heard a scream from the door that snapped Logan out of his trance and likely woke everyone in the vicinity.

I could feel my mouth frozen into an _O_ as Rogue threw the door open, her hands covering her own lips.

Logan, for his part, looked afraid. His claws retracted, and unable to hold myself up, I started to fall. Logan caught me in his arms, cradling me to his chest like a fragile doll.

By that time, the door had banged open and the light had been flicked on as students and teachers flooded the doorway. None dared to enter the room. I felt Charles on the edge of my mind and requested that he make everyone leave and have a conversation with Rogue, who would need the comfort.

My will was abided and door slammed shut.

We were alone and the icy finger of death was slowly beckoning to me.

Logan's mouth moved, then he tried again as the words stayed locked in his throat. "I'm sorry, I-"

I cut him off, "I understand completely," I wheezed, my punctured lung protesting. "I was always slower than you anyway."

He didn't say anything to that. What could he say? Almost absently, my hand found its way to his rough cheek. "It's always cold, when I die, before I die." I confided, coughing heavily and feeling blood come out of my mouth. My clinical assessment told me that I was lucky; he'd punctured my lung once and it was a small hole. I would live long enough to talk to him for a few moments. "I slip into death so easily, but coming back is the hard part."

I dropped my hand, incapable of holding it up any longer, but Logan caught it in his own and held it to his jaw. His eyes closed. He looked regretful. "Coming back is a fight. A fight against the thing that lives in the dark." I shivered, the pain in my chest increasing as I fought for the air to continue, "I don't know what the beast is, but I picture it as something symbolic, like my sins trying to hold me back from living again.

"Have I ever told you that I believe in God? Or I did, at least. I'm not sure about that any more. There are so many things I'm not sure of any more."

"Even if you had told me, I wouldn't remember," Logan reminded me softly, his voice rough.

I laughed breathlessly, "I keep forgetting that; that you're not him, not _my _Logan. The one I knew." I could no longer feel the red seeping out of me and onto my white nightgown. "You're different, yet you haven't changed at all. The only thing different, really, is your lack of experience with me, with the world."

Logan threw me a suspicious look, "You lied to me earlier, when Chuck asked you what I was to you."

I wish I could've shrugged. Instead, I stayed silent for a few seconds, trying to make my mouth work. Finally, I managed so quietly I was afraid even _he _would have trouble hearing me: "I always lie, Logan. The real question is when I'm telling you the truth."

* * *

The cold overtook my body and I was left alone in the darkness. I curled into a ball, relieved that I could move, but dreading the struggle of getting my body back.

There's a story about Death, saying you had to beat him in a game of sorts if you wanted to come back to life. Sometimes it was a fiddle contest, or a chess game, but for me and my good pal, Death, it was a fist fight.

I sat there whimpering for a while as the shadow circled me. It was so obvious to me that it was moving; I was no armature to death. John had only just managed to notice it before I dragged him back to the world of the living; he hand't needed to fight Death, because I'd torn him away from the realm of the dead before Death could lay a finger on him.

Suddenly, the shadow stabbed me in the chest with a hand wielding three silver claws. The wound that I had received that had killed me. Slowly, I rose to one knee, then to my feet. Time to fight back- I punched the shadow in the jaw, dodging his blow to my temple. I felt everything inside me heal as I steadily beat the shadow in the duel.

* * *

**April 4, 2004**

And then I came back to my body. I was laying on a lab table, restrained as Mary Jane loomed over me. A shrill sound reverberated throughout the room and I realised with a start that the noise was my screams of agony. The intense pain registered a split second later as my body began knitting itself back together slowly.

My back arched off the table as I hissed and writhed at the sensation. The pain was concentrated to my chest, which felt like it was on fire, but was slowly spreading as blood filled my veins again. I moaned and cried and may have even shouted for Logan. Everything was fuzzy.

I had beaten the shadow too early and woken up before the process was complete. Before it had really even started, if what I felt was to be believed.

Mary Jane gave me a look of pity and I closed my eyes as the bright light burned into my retinas. I wasn't able to remember my resurrection in explicit detail, but it felt like it hurt more each time it happened.

Probably because I tried to keep the time in between each death and subsequent coming-back-to-life spaced out. It meant I was not inured to the pain.

Finally, the process was over and I lay there panting, newly healed chest heaving.

Mary Jane's voice registered in my ears over the sound of my laboured breathing as she told me she desired to run a few tests, but wanted my approval.

I inhaled deeply, then exhaled, trying to control the frantic beat of my heart. "Maybe some other time, Mary Jane. I need to go..." _Breakdown in my shower..._ "-lay down. I can't- just- not right now. I injected some tracers in myself earlier though, if you're interested. I wanted to see how my body... repairs itself." I felt my lip curl unpleasantly around the word. "Have a look at that, and save your analysis for me. I want to see what you think after I look through the data."

"Alright," she agreed easily. In fact, she hadn't made one thinly veiled, passive-aggressive comment to me yet. She pitied me. "Do you need help?" I could feel her releasing my restraints and she apologised. "I'm sorry, but Professor Xavier was afraid you'd hurt someone when you woke up."

"I'll be fine," I said shortly, not really annoyed at her, but irritated because I had a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't actually be able to make it to my room unsupported. I sat up first, testing the resistance of the new skin and muscle. There was none. So I swung my legs over the side of the table and placed them on the floor. I slowly put weight on them, instantly feeling unbalanced and weak.

I forced myself to move even more slowly and was able to keep my pride as I managed not to collapse in a heap on the floor. I took a turn about the room to demonstrate to the fussing Mary Jane that I was all right, when really I was losing my energy and knew I was going to have a hard time getting back to my quarters.

After taking a sample of my blood and checking my blood pressure, Mary Jane cleared me to go back to my room. I sighed in relief and walked out of the lab, my notes on curing cancer clutched in my hand. they had been sitting carelessly on the counter and I couldn't leave them there- it was a promising idea!

I stumbled more than a few times on my way back to my room, surprised that Mary Jane hadn't forced an escort on me. Based on the time of day though, it was a shock that no one was out. From what I'd gathered, it was April fourth and six in the evening. People would be eating dinner.

Tough I'd half-expected the entirety of the teaching staff to be waiting for me.

Before I went into my own room, I hesitated at Logan's door. If he wasn't awake, it would be rude of me to disturb him, but at the same time, I was near certain that if he found out I was awake in the morning, he would be angered that no one had notified him sooner. A furious Wolverine is not part of a nutritious, balanced breakfast, believe you me.

So I knocked.


End file.
